


sober

by ShadesinBlue



Series: patience [10]
Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 02:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21348640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesinBlue/pseuds/ShadesinBlue
Summary: Axl scrubs a hand over his face, raking fingers through already messy hair. “It was bad,” he finishes.“Bad,” Duff echoes. “Bad, how?”(a hangover. a bathroom. a promise.)
Relationships: Duff McKagan/Axl Rose
Series: patience [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1214202
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34





	sober

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the late update! Thank you to everyone who left comments and for sticking with this series! As always, thanks to [@inkk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk), the best co-author I could ask for. 
> 
> This story is fiction, we don't own the characters, and we made no profit from this story.

There’s a moment where Duff thinks he’s dreaming. 

His eyes are crusted shut from sleep, mouth unbearably dry; the smell surrounding him, wood shavings and off-brand cologne, is entirely familiar. The sheets are, too. Duff remembers the scratchy feel of them against his palms from nights spent studying, perched on Axl’s bed and reading aloud from the textbook as he’d tried his best not to get distracted. 

It’s like all of his old wishes from right after their break-up coming true. Duff wants to curl up in this nostalgic, warm feeling he hasn’t been able to associate with Axl for too long. Instead, he blinks awake to foggy morning rays, rubbing his eyes while he makes an effort to sit upright. A sharp lurch in his gut has Duff pressing a hand over his lips, but the churning nausea passes after a second and he allows himself to relax. 

Lowering his hand, Duff confirms this is indeed Axl’s bedroom, which means the presence beside him can only be one person. So, this is his bedroom and apparently his clothing that Duff is wearing—an ill-fitting shirt riddled with holes at the hem and faded grey sweats that Duff doesn’t remember putting on, just like he doesn’t remember falling asleep here. All he recalls is a party at some guy’s house and Saul and too many drinks tempered with cheap weed and sleeping pills because Duff had wanted to forget the look on his parents’ faces, the silent way they’d been watching him the past week like he was a stranger and—

Duff sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, fist curled at the collar of his shirt as he tries to calm the way his chest is suddenly heaving beneath the thin fabric. Okay, so there’d been a party. He knows that much, knows he’d been there with Saul, glimpsed Izzy and Steven moving through the crowd at some point. Duff doesn’t remotely remember Axl being there and despite all his posturing and pretending, Duff _notices_ Axl. He would’ve immediately spotted that flaming hair, singled out that harsh voice rising above the pounding music. There’s no memory of him there. No memory of anything if Duff is being honest. 

Which leads to now, Duff’s knees curling to his chest as he tries his damned best to ignore the rumbling snores coming from his right, the solid weight beside him he’s resisting the urge to look at. He’s weak, always has been, particularly for Axl fucking Rose, so of course he glances over. The sight of Axl drooling onto his pillow, hair a knotted mess and knuckles bloody, shouldn’t affect Duff in any way—not anymore, not after Saul and their fight and all this time. As it is, Duff feels like he’s been sucker punched in the stomach. 

He jerks his head in the opposite direction, wincing at the telltale throb of what he knows is going to be a brutal hangover. Rubbing at his temple, Duff thinks hard about last night but nothing emerges from the black mass of thoughts that are clouding his mind. He can picture in crystal clear detail Saul’s hand around his wrist pulling him down a hallway as he’d staggered, but everything cuts out after that single image seared into his brain. 

Cursing under his breath at the pain starting to crescendo in his head, Duff decides the best idea is to get the hell out of Axl’s house and figure things out from there. He doesn’t want to know why his drunken self thought leaving with Axl would be anything close to a good idea, doesn’t really care to know why Axl had allowed it. There’s also a small, buried part of Duff that refuses to stick around long enough for Axl’s eyes to open, sleep heavy and soft in the morning light. 

Duff sighs in relief when he sees his phone on the bedroom dresser across the room. All he needs is to grab it and slip out. Then he can deal with the aftermath of last night in whatever way he needs. Duff crawls across the bed as gentle as his tall frame allows because waking Axl isn’t an option. The bed dips below his weight and he freezes at Axl mumbling in his sleep. 

Duff isn’t even sure if his other belongings are here. He can’t see any clothing of his lying on the floor, just a trench coat looking oddly out of place on Axl’s stained carpet. He blinks down at it, struck by the sudden urge to find his jacket. A shudder ripples down his shoulders at the thought, unbidden. He pushes the compulsion aside, isn’t sure why he’d thought of it in the first place. 

A tangle in the blankets catches around Duff’s ankle. He goes sprawling forward and he’d tip headfirst over the bed’s edge if firm hands hadn’t wrapped around his waist, pulling him back. Duff collides with Axl’s chest, his momentum throwing him further off balance. Axl’s fingers are warm against the strip of skin his shirt doesn’t cover. Duff jerks away from the touch. 

Axl releases him, scooting backwards on the bed like Duff’s caught fire. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and Duff looks over to meet alert, wary eyes. Axl’s hands are raised in the air, body straining away from Duff as if he’s done something heinous by placing his hands on him. 

Duff blinks slow, watches Axl watch him. “It’s fine,” he says. They both flinch at the ruined, hoarse quality of his voice. 

Duff closes his eyes as the roiling, churning feeling returns to his stomach. He swallows hard against the burning acid rising in the back of his throat. Waiting until his stomach settles along with the insistent throbbing in his head, Duff focuses on taking small, measured breaths through his nose. He can feel Axl studying him and for once Duff is annoyed with his intensity. 

“You gonna be sick?” Duff cracks his eyes open at Axl’s question, shakes his head once. He rolls his wrist around and around in his lap, repeats the motion with the other one. Duff hadn’t registered it when he first woke up but he’s sore everywhere, entire body aching like one massive bruise. 

“I’m good,” he answers out loud. 

Axl opens his mouth, shuts it again. A pause descends between them and Duff can only wait for Axl to lick his lips, finish playing with the loose thread hanging off the corner of his blanket. 

“Good.” Nothing further is offered. Axl is peering at him from beneath his lashes, strands of red hair sticking to his pale face. There’s something he’s not saying, Duff knows it in the sure way he knows Axl despite all the distance. 

“What?”

Axl raises his head. His attention darts to the bedside table where his own phone is resting before settling back on Duff. “Nothin’, Duffy.” Duff feels his own mouth straighten and thin at the nickname.

“Shit,” Axl runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like that comin’ from me.”

“S’fine,” Duff mumbles. A part of him is reeling in shock at the easy way Axl just apologized, at the open posture and cautious tone. Another beat of silence before Duff finds the courage to ask, “Did we…?”

“No.” Axl’s voice is steely, resolute. His shoulders are tight with tension. “I wouldn’t touch you like that.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; it’s no shock that Axl doesn’t want him. 

“No, not like—you were really drunk.” 

“I know,” Duff snaps. His head feels seconds away from exploding. A stinging pain has started up in the crook of his neck and it’s taking all his willpower not to rub at the skin. “I know I was drunk, Axl, it’s fucking obvious because I’m in your house and I can’t remember shit about getting here, which is why I asked you in the first place!”

Duff isn’t sure when he stood up during his outburst but suddenly he’s leaning against Axl’s dresser, panting as he shakes. Duff can’t seem to stop violently trembling. His mouth is still chalky and he can feel a dull ache in his hips where they press against a knob on the dresser. 

Axl rises from the bed, hands twitching at his sides before wrapping around his own torso. He looks sick to his core, mouth pursing like he’s closer to spewing all over his floor than Duff is. “S’alright.” Desperation bleeds into his voice. “Everything’s okay, Duff, just try to calm down, angel.”

“Don’t call me that,” Duff croaks out. 

“Sorry,” Axl steps forward, pauses at the look on Duff’s face before stepping back again. “I’m sorry, Duff. I just—” He breaks off, stares at the space between them. 

“Just what?” Duff asks the question but he knows he doesn’t want to hear Axl’s answer. He can see it in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the fumbling words so unlike Axl’s steady, straightforward way of speaking. Hot spikes of panic begin to spread, lodging beneath the surface of Duff’s skin and increasing the seasick rocking of his insides. 

Axl chews at the inside of his cheek. “How much do you remember from last night?”

“Nothing,” but that’s not entirely true. There’s an image now, distant and hazy, of Axl leaning over him in his truck. His lips are moving, but Duff can’t remember what he was trying to tell him.

“At all?” 

“Nothing,” he repeats. Duff watches Axl shift his weight from foot to foot, one stubborn strand of hair continuing to fall over his face. 

“Maybe it’s better that way,” Axl replies. He still refuses to meet Duff’s eyes, staring somewhere past his face. 

“I’m really doubting that, Axl, seeing as you brought it up in the first place.”

“I just—” Duff waits but the words don’t come. Axl scrubs a hand over his face, raking fingers through already messy hair. “It was bad,” he finishes.

“Bad,” Duff echoes. “Bad, how?” 

Axl just stares at him. The silence feels like a third presence draped over them both, seconds ticking by. 

Duff breaks first. “Bad as in, I got into a fight? I made a fool of myself? What, did Saul and I scream at each other and break up?”

Axl’s eye twitching at Saul's name doesn’t escape his notice. His boyfriend is involved then. Duff thinks, tries his best to push through the blankness and grasp the memory he’s searching for. Nothing comes.

Slumping, Duff picks at the skin on his knuckles flaking off. He waits for Axl to speak but there’s just that blaring quiet Duff can’t seem to stand, wanting to dig it out of his ears.

“I’ll find out eventually.” Duff wishes his voice weren’t so weak. It sounds like he’s disappearing in the folds of Axl’s room, sinking into the walls. 

“I don’t wanna be the one to tell you.” Axl’s lip curls, bruised knuckles flexing as he finally meets Duff’s eyes. “I know that’s selfish.”

“I deserve to know.” He tries again, slightly more forceful. “Just say it. Tell me.”

That pauses whatever argument Axl was forming in his mind. He watches him tug on red hair, swallow, turn his head to the side as if searching for anyone to do this for him. Duff’s stomach is churning but there’s something else settling over him—a detached, deadly calm. His chest feels tight as Duff waits for the blow of what Axl will say next. 

It never comes. Axl opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again to let out a garbled, dying sound followed by a desperate look. Duff knows if he wants an answer he’s not getting it here. 

He scoffs low in his throat, turns to grab his phone, flicking the screen on. “Whatever, I’ll just go. Saul can probably tell me.”

Duff glances down, he hears Axl say “Wait, Duff—” but it’s too late. He’s already seen the backlog of messages, of social media alerts, missed calls, and links from an array of unknown numbers. 

One message towards the top catches his eye in particular, flashing neon in his vision despite the small black font.

**Unknown Number:** Slut.

An image of hands on his bare waist flashes through his mind, the sound of Saul’s laugh from far away. Duff swallows hard, clicks on the link just below with a shaking thumb. He dodges Axl’s grab for his phone without thinking or trying, ignores the frantic, “No, wait, let me tell you, I’ll explain–Duff, please.”

The shaky footage is unclear to him at first; there’s a jumble of people, of faces jeering and laughing at something pathetically crumpled on the sheets of the twin bed. It’s pale, with the beginning signs of bruising along the hips, arms, a bite mark at the base of its neck. Every time it’s touched, a wounded whimpering like some kind of wild animal escapes. 

Then, “If you’re gonna do it, now’s the time man, he won’t bite.” It’s Saul’s voice. The words hang for a moment before the blurry image of a guy pushing forward, crawling on the bed and grinning when the mess of limbs doesn’t move.

Axl is silent while he watches. Duff barely registers the crude comments, the camera changing angles for a closer view of what’s happening on the mattress. He can’t feel much of anything past the chill settling in his core.

The video isn’t finished but he can’t find it in himself to care. Duff clicks the screen off, sets it face down on Axl’s dresser.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom now.” His voice echoes like a ghost, like he’s talking from far away. 

He doesn’t wait for a response. Muscle memory carries him down the hall to the first door on his left, the paint peeling off in strips. Duff shoulders it open, shuts it behind him. He doesn’t lock it, wonders if there’d be a point anymore. The light switch sticks for a moment before flicking up and on, casting the old bathroom in a sickly yellow light. He focuses on the crack at the corner of the mirror, sliding his gaze over little by little until his eyes are level with the skin at his hips.

The shirts risen up his torso, the sweatpants loose at his waist, so it’s no surprise to see the fingerprint marks on his skin laid out in red and purple. Duff keeps his eyes on the mirror when he reaches a hand down, presses his palm against the spots until he can feel a muted throbbing. He raises his eyes to the edge of a bite mark peeking out from the shirt’s loose collar, takes in the angry red scratches on his neck. There’s nothing. He feels empty. 

Duff forces himself to look into his own eyes. They’re the same, but he can only remember how they looked on video—fluttering open and shut, unfocused and gone.

He bends over the sink, throws up as an afterthought. After, Duff washes the vomit down the drain, wipes damp toilet paper over the stained ceramic. He doesn’t want to leave a mess. 

Sliding down to the floor, he leans against the side of the tub with his knees close to his chest. He’s not sure how long he sits staring at the cotton fabric over his knees before Axl slips in, sitting next to him without hesitation. He doesn’t try to touch or hold him, and Duff feels a spark of gratitude.

“Whatever you need,” Axl murmurs into the silence. “Whatever I can do.” Duff doesn’t bother responding. He shifts one knee until it’s brushing Axl’s.

They sit together on the bathroom floor and Duff waits for something inside of him to ease.


End file.
